


Zwischenwertsatz

by waterfallliam



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Math Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, no actual maths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterfallliam/pseuds/waterfallliam
Summary: Hot? No, John can’t be hearing that right, his mind must be skipping over sounds, like a jerky needle on a record. Strange women and really, only strangers, ever call him that.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95





	Zwischenwertsatz

**Author's Note:**

> My main McShep wip is taking ages, so here's something shorter in the meantime. Inspired by [this tumblr post](https://mcshep-mcship.tumblr.com/post/186288924233/sheppard-do-you-know-how-insanely-hot-you-are)! Unbeta'd, set in early s2. Hope this provides some joy, especially now.

  
“Sheppard, do you know how insanely hot you are when you correct Zelenka’s equations?”

John stops in his tracks. “What?” Rodney knows he’s smart. That he could have been Mensa had really impressed him, but then he’d been pissed that John wouldn’t join their circle-jerk club. Hot? No, he can’t be hearing that right, his mind must be skipping over sounds, like a jerky needle on a record. Strange women and really, only strangers, ever call him that. As soon as he opens his mouth, well…

What he chooses to say is, “Zelenka is a little distracted right now.” The six kids running around him are evidence enough of that. There had been no time to send the Athosians or non-essential expedition members through to a safe site, so for now they are all crowded inside the city, protected by the shield. He’d been summoned to the lab to help herd them somewhere less delicate, Rodney sounding both frustrated and amused over the radio, but as soon as he’d stepped into the room the hastily scrawled equations on the whiteboard had all but shouted their mistakes at him.

“You,” Rodney repeats and pokes John in the arm, not caring for the way he recoils, cradling his P-90 just that bit closer. Actually, he should probably put that away for now. The children are harmless enough, even though Zelenka looks close to tears.

“Correcting Zelenka’s equations,” Rodney points at the board like John’s one of said kids. He considers the urge to roll his eyes and gives in. If this were a life or death situation he might contain it, save it for later, but as it is, it isn’t. They’ve got three hours to kill before the Daedalus gets here to zap the hive ship and save the day, and he’s already got three rejoinders for Caldwell ready to choose from.

“So what? You’d’ve done the same,” John shrugs. The kids are most likely the only reason Rodney hasn’t already. Across the room, Miko’s pushing another scientist towards Zelenka, who awkwardly puts his hands on his hips, but it has the opposite effect. The children just start running around him, too, lost in the world of some complicated game or story they’re enacting. John should probably try to help more, but Zelenka isn’t in serious distress and it’s kind of fun to watch.

Rodney sighs, long suffering and dramatic, fixing him with a frown. “Yes, but when you did it, it was hot!” 

So, he did hear that right. _Huh._

Before he can reply, Rodney grabs John’s sleeve and pulls. John lets himself be dragged through a few adjacent labs, unsure of why he needs to be taken somewhere else but trusting Rodney enough to see where this is going. Rodney doesn’t do things without a solid reason. The doors close behind then until they’re somewhere quiet.

Now they’re alone, John asks, “Math turns you on?” It’s by far not the strangest thing he’s heard. He’s unsure when it will come in handy down the line—which mission will send them to a planet of irresistible, murderous mathematicians—but if he’s learnt anything in the Pegasus galaxy it’s to expect the improbable.

“I—er—maybe. But it’s not about the math.”

“Thought it kinda was,” John says, making his tone light and teasing, but he doesn’t really understand what’s happening. Is Rodney about to dress him down for humiliating his second in command in front of the others? No, that’s stupid, Rodney does that all the time. But Rodney’s red in the face, like when he’s about to rant. Is this going to be another admonition for sneering at their Mensa chess tournaments and exclusive parties? Or has Rodney been exposed to some substance— “Are you feeling alright, McKay? You’ve not touched any weird goo or anything lately?”

Rodney grunts in frustration, pushing him back. The noise gets under his skin. Rodney’s passion is like a catalyst, making the fluttery feeling between his ribs fizzle and pop, threatening to tear through him like acid. It always gets to him, whether Rodney is annoyed and ranting, bright-eyed and gabbling, or apparently walking towards John, practically vibrating.

The goo theory is looking more and more likely.

“It was hot, okay.” Rodney sounds more wrung out than he usually does five hours into a crisis, and yeah, _okay_. John’s getting it. Or getting some of it.

“Uh… sorry?”

“For what?” Rodney’s still walking, and usually John would step back, but he’s up against a table, the edge blocking him and letting Rodney move in closer than usual. His usual is already nearer than most others; he isn’t easily put off by all the stand off-ish body language John projects, his currently crossed arms doing little to stop him.

This close he can see just how long Rodney’s lashes look against his cheek, will be able to feel Rodney's breath when he speaks. “I…” John doesn’t know. The fluttery feeling hasn’t dissipated. If anything, it’s intensified. He licks his lips.

“It’s always extra hot when you do math,” Rodney says, whining to himself as he fumbles with John’s P-90, setting it on a table within arm’s reach once John relinquishes it.

“Extra?”

Rodney palms one of the pouches on John’s TAC vest and shakes. “Shut up. You know you’re hot.”

“Uh…” John doesn’t really, but now doesn't feel like the moment to reevaluate past conversations or how he frowns at himself in the mirror.

Rodney’s pupils don’t look bigger than normal, he’s not sweaty or paranoid, just—just insistent. He hasn’t been anywhere near MXJ-65L where they found the infectious, mind-altering substance, and Ayda’s reconnaissance team had already sat through quarantine and been given the all clear from Carson. “So… no alien goo?”

“No,” Rodney confirms, looking at him expectantly.

Oh.

 _Oh_. Rodney thinks he’s hot.

The thought burns through him, all summer day heat and the excitement of revving an engine. And… Rodney has dragged him here, got him on his own and up against a proverbial wall. A solution to his finding-John-doing-math-hot-and-distracting-problem, a we're-about-to-die impulse, all sheer reality that _Rodney wants him, too._

John slips onto the table and grabs Rodney’s elbows, using his new, seated position to tug him even closer. “So it’s a me thing, not a maths thing.”

Rodney grabs onto John’s hips above his belt, rolls his eyes, “Yes, it’s a you thing.” His hands slide under John’s TAC vest as he cosies up with confidence. Still, Rodney hesitates, and John can’t make himself close the gap, heart thudding in his chest as loudly as if he was underwater, sinking into the deep end of the pool with no point of reference but the rush of his own blood.

“You know,” John says, voice half a whisper, as if telling his secret too loudly will push Rodney away. “I kind of have a you thing, too.”

Rodney’s mouth opens, then shuts, then presses against John’s, firm like his words but gentle in a way that John rarely hears. The kiss is starts slow, then becomes fast and frustrated. It’s not a strangled, desperate thing John had imagined happening as one of them (inevitably) lays dying, or an unplanned accident, riding emotion out to the place it was always going to arrive at. No, this feels harder, more urgent, with an edge because John can’t let himself be completely distracted from the fact that there’s a hive ship circling overhead.

Hands unzip his vest, unwrapping his heaving chest as Rodney continues to coax breathless moans from between his lips. Rodney’s a good kisser, an excellent kisser, far better than he’d been imagining. He knows he himself is not the best, fumbling with how to position his tongue and how much attention to pay where—he’s never had much time or opportunity for _just kissing_ —but Rodney is sure and strong as ever, taking the lead but not making John feel any worse for it as he sucks on his bottom lip. Then Rodney’s saying something, pausing before diving back in.

“…you sure, right now?”

John fists his hand in Rodney’s jacket and—he wants Rodney naked, wants them both naked, to feel the crush of skin against skin—but this is good, too. Quicker, like he’s used to. And somehow new, seeing Rodney wilfully exposing himself like this, so close to looking like he does normally but not. It feels wrong to still have his radio in, to be doing this during a crisis. But the current danger is no more immediate than when he’s on call, which is pretty much always now. It bends his mind, thinking about it too much, how the weight of it all stretches him thin, liable to tear apart. Rodney helps, spelling out problems and finding solutions, his trust in scientific reality as sure as the feel of him clutching John’s ribs. John knows he can switch back to being Major Sheppard within seconds, has done it before, so he lets himself have this.

“Yeah, c’mon.” He’s already at half-mast when Rodney unclips his belt and opens his trousers with his right hand. One handed, now that’s hot.

John feels Rodney against his leg. He's doing that: turning him on, not just another warm body or a playacted dance they both know is only for a night. John hooks his heels behind his knees to keep Rodney close, offering the inside of his thigh for him to rub off against.

Rodney’s hand grips him through his boxers, tugs just a bit too tightly and John groans, planting his face in the heat of Rodney’s neck.

“Fuck, Rodney,” he growls and Rodney goes from hilt to tip again, swiping his thumb along his slit.

Rodney’s other hand moves to the back of his neck, his fingers curling into a protective hold that makes something deep in John settle, even as he strains for more friction. “I got you,” Rodney whispers.

Does he know how long John’s felt alone? It’s so much easier to always take responsibility, to never trust others enough to give them more than you can stand to lose. Fighting together is a different kind of vulnerability than this, breathless and letting himself be held.

As Rodney’s strokes speed up, John scrabbles for purchase, pulling at the rough fabric of Rodney's jacket. The cotton of his boxers gets wrinkled beneath Rodney’s grip, the sensation unpredictable in a way his own hand isn't. He nips at Rodney’s collarbone through his shirt, polyester tasting gross and plastic-y, but Rodney shudders and jerks between the hug of his legs, and it’s more than worth it. John flattens his tongue, mouths at the parts of Rodney he can reach. A twist of Rodney’s wrist, and he squirms, feels himself drool. He’s so close, stomach clenching as Rodney whispers something he can’t make out in his ear, the hard way Rodney says his _n_ s and _t_ s ricocheting through his skull.

Spilling all over himself, he’s only dimly aware that Rodney is stroking his hair, pressing one, then two kisses against the crown of his head. It’s too much, he’s all strung out and Rodney is staying and—

John takes a split second to feel grateful that the tears he can feel in the corner of his eyes are hidden. He breathes in, then out. Tries not to hold onto this moment too tightly, just to let it pass over and through him; let himself _feel_ down to the tips of his fingers and toes. In and out. Then he lets go.

He feels floaty, pleasure spreading him out like candyfloss. “Next time you’re fucking me,” John pants, turning to face Rodney. John’s torn between wanting to run to the nearest bathroom to sort out the sticky situation in his boxers and slipping to his knees so he can blow Rodney right here right now.

“’Course you can just say things like that,” Rodney whines, grinding against John’s leg with renewed vigour. He might not last long enough for that. It’s probably for the best, the floor looks hard.

“Hey, I’m here,” John pulls himself together enough to slip his hand between them just so.

A few more shiver-shudder gasps of breath and Rodney’s coming, laying his hot cheek against John’s, leaning on him, almost hugging.

John stretches his stiff legs, then lets them hang as he sits on the edge of the table, tracing triangles and circles into the back of Rodney’s jacket with one hand, holding onto his forearm with the other.

Rodney speaks first. “This thing of ours could get us into a lot of trouble.”

He’s right, it could. Especially if they do something as stupid as this again. Not the sex, but the timing. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” John replies.

Rodney leans back to face him again, carefully zipping and buttoning John’s then his own trousers. His face is still a little flush, mottling his skin. “Me too. You make me want to be brave.”


End file.
